Between the bars

Drink up, baby. It’ll make you okay. I’ll make you okay. I won’t change anything, but I’ll make you forget. I’ll take you away. And once we’re back, I’ll still be here. I always will be.

I’ll make you forget them all, forget who they are. Your place, where you are. You are with me now. You’re all that matters now. The redundancy of your days, we’ll disregard them. The worthlessness of your hours, we’ll fritter more. Your insignificance, we will cherish. Your misery we will relish.  We are in the now, and now, you are away. Yesterday does not matter with me. Neither does tomorrow.  We live today, and today I will take you with me.

You can be lonely with me. You can feel sad. You can cry. I will let you be. I will try. I will be with you, but I won’t stop you. And I won’t tell anyone. You can escape without leaving them. They matter too much to be left. That’s why I’m here. To take you away when you cannot go.

There’s nothing wrong. There is nothing. All there is, is nothing.

It won’t change anything. It won’t help either. Just let you carry on.

Come with me now. Let me take you now.

I have you now.

Talking too much

Is it bad? I don’t know.

I’ve always been a talkative person, at least around people I’m comfortable with. I’ve been dubbed with nicknames by family all through my childhood of or pertaining to being so. It’s a personality trait for me; a second nature.

Wise people are always depicted as being composed, collected, self-possessed. Never talkative. Talkativeness I think has negative connotations, with garrulity. I don’t want those two qualities confused. I for one do know I tend to speak more often than not, but not in a ‘not nice’ way (at least I hope that’s not the case). I don’t know. Why do I sometimes can’t help but feel that it is ‘not nice’? Of course, if one talks a lot, the chances that they speak crap are higher than those who don’t, because well, there’s more talking happening. More chatter, more natter.

Sometimes, I’d get a whim to just stop talking. Decide that, that’s it, I’d stop being talkative. It never worked. In fact, it would be difficult. It was conscious, I’d be constantly thinking of not talking, because I’d constantly be wanting to.

I remember as a child, probably 7 or 8 years old, I was in the playground at school. We had a girl in our class, so calm and shy. She never spoke. I was jealous of that. I remember her nose was bleeding that day, she stood under the shade with tissues fiddling around under the shade. I remember looking at her and thinking ‘I want to be like that’. I don’t know why I thought that talking was such an incompetence.

Maybe because it is. I digress too much.

Lost

People are surrounding you; you’re not alone. You have your family. You have your friends. You have your lover. But you are lonely.

You relentlessly linger, laze, and loiter. You find it mundane, meek, and mediocre. You render them lower, lesser, and worse.

You’re lethargic. Without energy. Without power; powerless. Without direction; directionless.Your life is hapless, and you, hopeless.

Always looking for something, always. Never have you found it, but never did you stop. Constantly lost, in a yearning search, on a longing pursuit; it’s a never-ending desire. You’re looking for something, wanting something. Who is it? What is it?

You thought you found it. You let it go, you let go. Break up, break off and break away. Time and time again.

But then, things changed. Someone became something. This time you didn’t let go. How could you? He’s everything you have ever wanted. The exact reason you want to. Too good. Too good to be true.

It is not true.

Is it?

Only you choose whether it’s worth it. Whether it’s worth the inevitable hurt. The very hurt you now contain, carry down, and carry on. The strangling, the choking, the heart beats; all that’s buried down.

If you decide it worth it, decide it true, if you let it be true: dig a bigger pit. Let it be ceaseless, only then will it suffice.

A question difficult to answer. Yes, you can not answer. You remain, for now, still lost. Still searching, still pursuing. In a never-ending desire.

You do not want to answer.

No tears anymore

 

I fight to contain my tears. The door is wide open, I can hear them talking outside. But I can’t help it. I can’t keep it in this long. Someone just passed, I look up, smile. The tears still in place. I can’t help it. I think of him and burst into tears. Thoughts race in my head, a thousand memories. A thousand more. Feels like an eternity together, and the end of. A quarter of my life I spent, with him.

We fought dozens upon dozens of times, but not that time.  We always made up, except that time. It was unprompted, to him.  I was contemplating it for months.

Did I do the right thing? It does not matter. Not one bit. No, because it’s too late. All hope, for anything, absolutely anything, is absolutely obliterated. By me, solely. My chest heaves at that thought, my heart clenches. Emotions so indefinite yet so familiar strangle me, taunt me, daunt me, loom around my head, attacking: ‘It’s all your fucking fault.’ I scream, it echoes unheard.

A quarter of my life I frittered, with him.

My mind is drained. My eyes impassive. I am unmoved.

No tears anymore.

 

Careless, but carefree.

It’s amazing how a single song can stir so much emotion, dig up so many memories, lift, and drop your soul.

It deluges you, with feelings long forgotten, striking you. It takes you away, far far away, to wherever.

You feel it, on your skin, underneath it. Your senses hammered.

It takes you away. Al Khawaneej Road, 3 am, spontaneity, youth, innocence. Long ago.

You remember it all. You are there. The AC blowing cold. The sky dark, masked in orange; the street lamps were bright. He looks at you, you stare. ‘Stop biting your nails!’ You laugh, both. So long ago. You remember it all.

The song ends.

Another begins.

You listen. You close your eyes – you are there. ‘Could I have this kiss forever?’ You lean towards each other. Your lips unite. You kiss, smiling. You’re young. Careless, but carefree.

This Mess We’re In – PJ Harvey and Thom Yorke.

This Mess We’re In – PJ Harvey and Thom Yorke.

This song just [insert verb] me. Just hearing it, it gives me chills. Without even listening to the lyrics, just the tune, the tone, the voices. I don’t know. It evokes so much emotion, emotion I didn’t even know existed. Since I haven’t heard it before, it isn’t to me associated with a certain period in my life, yet it still takes me to kind of non-existent memories. I don’t know how to explain it. You know when you hear a song, or smell a distinct smell. and it reminds you of and takes you to a certain place/time/memory? The same thing happens to me except that I don’t know what this place/time/memory is. Maybe because the tune is similar to a song I used to listen to a lot before, but don’t really remember, or maybe I’m just weird.

.

Anyways, what are your [insert verb] songs?

She was depressed.

She sat in her bathroom. Her head in her hands, her eyes closed. She sobbed. The sadness was overwhelming; she actually felt a sense of grief, almost tangible, engulfing her very being. She felt the energy drain from her frail body, her back stooped.

She lifted her head from her hands and opened her eyes. The lights were hurting them. She paused, then looked to her right, opened the bathroom closet, and grabbed some small nail scissors from a familiar clutch. She tossed it around her hand for some time. Then, she pressed its edges against her thighs, and tugged. It was silly, she knew.

She scraped the sharp ends across a little patch on her thigh softly. She repeated, slowly. She watched as her skin reddened, but she did not stop. No, consumed in her unhappiness, she continued. She sensed pain, ache, inside. Her heart hurt. She was sad. . ‘Die’, she whimpered. ‘Die, die, die.’ Her emotions grew, her scratches too, stronger and harder, and she sadder, and angrier. Her heart pounded as her scratching turned to stabbing.

‘Die! Why don’t you fucking die!’ she moaned, her chest heaving with misery.  It was starting to hurt, she could sense the pain in her thigh. ‘Die! Die! You deserve it! You fucking deserve it! DIE!’ she cried.  She abraded her skin until she could no more. ‘Why won’t you just die?!’ she wept. Then, she stopped stabbing, letting go of the scissors from her hands. She was crying. ‘Why won’t you die.’ she sighed with tears masking her face. She sat there, still, for a while.

She stopped crying. She felt weak, in the face. Exhausted. She got up, looked at her miserable miserable face in the mirror. Such beauty, marred. Eyeliner stained her soft cheeks. She wiped it away, she washed her face. Looked again in the mirror, and left the bathroom.

Into the living room she went, and smiled, at her family. ‘Hey!’ she said, sincerely casually. Her thigh burnt.

         It’s ever so sad, isn’t it?

 

Pestering Sales Assistants.

Don’t you hate it when you enter a store, just looking, for nothing in particular, when the sales assistant hovers around you, suggesting products (more like shoving-down-your-throat products), offering to show you the latest despite -in spite- of your clear disinterest, hounding you, badgering, and wait, this isn’t even the worse part yet, you tell them, very clearly, that you’re just looking, but no, they wouldn’t leave you in peace, they stay, they linger at your throat, watching you, pouncing at you every time you grab a product in your hand, and when they just wont plain f*cking budge?!

It annoys me, in fact it discourages me from going into that particular store altogether. This happens mostly and probably only (for me at least) in beauty/make up stores. Ya3ny I’m just looking dude, go away, I don’t want your help! Surely, they can be helpful and all, but you haven’t seen what I’m talking about, I’m pretty sure this only happens in Arab beauty stores (with only Arab assistants, unfortunately), since when abroad, I’m yet to see this phenomena, at least not to this extent.

Said sales assistant has kilos upon kilos (well, maybe grams, but still!) of make up packed on her face, you could actually see a whole layer of stuff residing on the surface, and this very person is expected to guide you to pick your make-up; advising, suggesting, recommending, yet for some unbeknown reason, she fails to do so for herself.

And it’s not even the hypocritical faces that bug me, it’s just how so uncomfortable they make me feel, and how they do not understand when you say NO.

This one time in Sephora, a lady practically raped my face with some Benetint, I mean, imagine, she offered, heck she didn’t, she just forced it upon me, I had told her ‘No thanks -don’t wanna try it’, yet she still found the need to paint my face with it (all upon my disapproval and continuous and increasing-in-pitch ‘No thank you’s’). She was the Benefit sales assistant, and was obviously being commissioned and so utterly biased. I go looking for some mascara from another counter, but no, she comes and drags me back to get some Benefit mascara. Again, I move onto another counter, this time for some cream blush, but hey what do you know, the Benefit blushes (not even cream) are better, so yep, she lugs me back. Lucky for her I like Benefit.

I don’t know if I’m the only one who feels this way. Is it me who doesn’t know what to say, or is it them that are out of line? Beats me.
Nothing! 🙂

My tagline

So.

My tagline seems off and not so catchy, but it’s part of my tagline-legacy, with the same tagline for all my fantasies, which hopefully, one day, will become a reality!

You see, I decided to open a make up store earlier this year, and as I was conversing with my friend as to what to call it, we somehow came up with : The make up store where you buy make up from. Which I thought was  cool. Then, it evolved to: The make up store where you buy make up from, The make up store where you buy make up from. The former being the name of the shop, and the latter being the tagline. I could so imagine a soothing voice stating the name and then proceeding to the tag-line with a change of tone, like on a TV ad or something. I also picture the store bags with the tagline written in a fancy italic font under it’s identical title. aah.

Then, I also decided to open a furniture store, which, you guessed it, would be called, The furniture store where you buy furniture from, the furniture store where you buy furniture from.

I want to open a nursery as well, this actually being one of my first more-serious fantasies, before I decided I was more passionate about make up, than kids. I think I’ll name it : The nursery where you drop your kids off at, the nursery where you drop your kids off at. Although, I don’t really like that. Maybe ‘Nursery‘ would cut it?

If you think this is over-ambitious, you should see what I was planning to do in 6th/7th grade. And the funny thing is, I was completely completely serious about it all, I think I may post on that sometime.

Anyways … nothing!

   The make up store where you buy make up from

The make up store where you buy make up from

 


The furniture store where you buy furniture from

The furniture store where you buy furniture from

Nursery

What to do with life?

Hi.

At school, one of the most common questions is ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’ or ‘What would you like to study?’. I’ve never known how to answer those questions. I didn’t know what I wanted to study and as a result I didn’t know what I wanted to do later on in life. People would say just do what you like, but what if I don’t know what I like? This struck me when I was deciding on my AS subject for Year 12, I wasn’t sure which subjects I enjoyed, which I hated, and which I was neutral about. I ended up picking 3 different subjects to widen my choices once I do know what I want.

So, I’m just trying to say that I’d love to have a set path, know where I’m going, have something to want to wake up for everyday, instead of nothing’ing all year.

Anyhow, now I’m left with this question, what do with life? ‘Getting on with it’ doesn’t seem to cut it anymore.